


What Happens To The Heart

by AllthefanficsAllofthem



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Napoleon's birthday, inaccurate Russian imagery, kind of pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-20 22:26:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22550695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllthefanficsAllofthem/pseuds/AllthefanficsAllofthem
Summary: No further recollection of these days comes to him now.A blur of grays and dark blues during march and then again months later a rush of forest green and earthly browns , miles and miles away, filthy and exhausted.what he does remember is dark blond hair, tousled and soft and a confused scowl on a pretty face."Illya"And Napoleon's mouth is filled again with rich honey, butter, agar.Based on a birthday prompt that took a turn from silly and whimsical to poetic really quickly.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	What Happens To The Heart

**Author's Note:**

> For the English translation of the words look to the end notes.  
> Go listen to the Russian birthday song on yt, it's depressingly nice.  
> Title from Leonard Cohen's what happens to the heart. I listened to Låpsley - My Love Was Like The Rain, Agnes Obel - fuel to fire and Yann Tiersen - Porz Goret as i wrote this if you're interested.
> 
> Enjoy!

He thinks it may have been around six years, maybe seven.  
The year he got dismissed from the army. It was in an american base in a town near Moscow, and he and a couple other soldiers had abandoned their post in search of booze and women, it wasn't difficult to, in this area.  
He has the vague memory of a quiet birthday celebration at a ran down bar where many locals frequented, the music mellow and the aftertaste of winter sharp and bitter.

No further recollection of these days comes to him now.  
A blur of grays and dark blues during march and then again months later a rush of forest green and earthly browns , miles and miles away, filthy and exhausted.

what he does remember is dark blond hair, tousled and soft and a confused scowl on a pretty face.  
Maxwell, Napoleon reminisces though not so kindly, had convinced the rest to grab every stranger on the street and demand that they sing to their very inebriated and very embarrassed friend for his birthday.  
Most people sidestepped their ignorant bunch of misfits like this was a frequent occurrence and should not be paid any mind. Others cursed them loudly in fluent Russian and broken English in the middle of the street as they made their hasty exit giggling like a bunch of schoolgirls. Very few stopped and awkwardly sung before scurrying away, afraid perhaps of the drunk foreigners in army suits.  
An old weary lady on her way home from the market, a pair of young women they took by surprise, a gangly youngster handing out the daily paper and the tallest sourest looking Russian they encountered that evening.

Napoleon had expected more curses thrown their way, planned to drag them all away before things got ugly, apologize to the mountain of a Russian when he saw him twitch and frown.  
Instead large palms ran up and down the sides of trousered thighs and baby blues looked around skittishly.

It may have been the massive amounts of alcohol in his blood, the adrenaline and high of the moment but then Napoleon had heard the most beautiful voice in the world and words smooth and wistful in a rough tone with lilting turns.  
It tasted on his tongue like rich honey, butter,agar.  
Grating on his taste buds like unprocessed sugar, full and overwhelming. Stage whispering a tune with a startling elegance and affection. Maybe it was the song with its lullaby softness and youthful sounds, melancholic rhymes Napoleon had no way of understanding and not the deep voice that took care to utter the words so gently into the night as not to bother the rest of the passerbys. But the others did not seem to be as entranced by this sight as Napoleon was. 

He remembers foreign words, incomprehensible and sweet spoken  
as the stranger stared at him with a surprised sort of awe.  
A birthday song , the others had kept chanting through it.

"Пусть бегут неуклюже  
Пешеходы по лужам,  
А вода — по асфальту рекой.  
И не ясно прохожим  
В этот день непогожий,  
Почему я веселый такой."  


"May people run clumsily through puddles  
May the water flow like a river down the street,  
And may people passing by not understand why  
I am so happy on this sad day."

It had been two years after the incident he had come upon the meaning of the words the charming stranger had serenaded him with.

"Я играю на гармошке  
У прохожих на виду.  
К сожаленью, день рожденья  
Только раз в году."  


"And I play the accordion for all to see  
It’s a pity that my birthday  
Is only once a year"

Napoleon had then felt forlorn and so faraway from this magical moment, ached to be back in cold white roads, in the blur of grays and dark blues, in the embrace of tender hums and whistles. 

"Прилетит вдруг волшебник  
В голубом вертолете  
И бесплатно покажет кино.  
С днем рожденья поздравит  
И, наверно, оставит  
Мне в подарок пятьсот «эскимо»."  


"Suddenly a wizard flies in in a blue helicopter  
And shows me a movie for free.  
He wishes a happy birthday  
And perhaps he'll give me 500 ice-creams as a present."

The stranger, relaxing into the song, had looked at Napoleon, youthful through his austere expression, with a bizarre intensity, though before it had registered in his mind, the song had ended and the stranger was moving away.

"Я играю на гармошке  
У прохожих на виду.  
К сожаленью, день рожденья  
Только раз в году.

К сожаленью, день рожденья  
Только раз в году."

"And I play the accordion for all to see  
It’s a pity that my birthday  
Is only once a year

It’s a pity that my birthday  
Is only once a year."

In hindsight, his superiors had made it clear what the consequences of such actions would be, but Napoleon had been glad he was let go either way. It saved him from wasting months on scheming and planning his escape.

Though he would rather enjoy extending his time in Russia.  
He was not given that option.

"Подождите"

Years down the line Napoleon cringes at the memory of atrociously spoken Russian and clumsy attempts at communication.  
Still, the aftertaste of dulcet undertones lingers on his tongue as he stumbles after tall blonde and mysterious.

His friends give him no notice as he goes after the stranger, perhaps unconcerned for his safety in their own drunken stupor.

It's moronic, it's what it is.  
Would they search for him afterwards? Would he catch up with the charming stranger? Would he get punched for his troubles after all?  
He has heard of Russian people's hate of small talk, strangers and anything to do with joy at all.  
He thinks it won't stop him and when the stranger looms over him, an unceasing expression of bewilderment on his face, yet unmoving, he thinks he won't have to.

Dark blond hair, tousled and soft and a confused scowl on a pretty face takes him by surprise for the second time in an evening.

He doesn't mind the huge gap where words fail them. Only one word matters.

"Как вас зовут?"

His knowledge of the language is limited. Napoleon has no way to know if the words coming out of his mouth mean anything to the man in front of him. Broad shoulders hunch and long legs shift nervously but recognition lits his stormy eyes.

"Илья"  
Thin lips hold the word back , hesitantly.

"Illya"  
And Napoleon's mouth is filled again with rich honey, butter, agar.  
His eyes swim with a rush of grays and dark blues.

"Illya"  
The stranger says and leads Napoleon back to a nondescript apartment where he lets him crash on his worn out couch.

Illya, Napoleon thinks as he runs and runs and sees flashes of forest green and earthly browns.

**Author's Note:**

> Подождите - wait
> 
> Как вас зовут? - what's your name?
> 
> Илья - Illya 
> 
> I used google translate for the russian parts so if you're a native speaker and notice any mistakes feel free to give me a heads up. 
> 
> A little useless background info in case this gets a sequel.  
> The year is 1952, Napoleon is 23 and Illya 21, according to fan wiki it's the year Napoleon gets "dismissed" from the army .  
> I've made an eh timeline based on canon and Illya is already three years in the KGB (as an american army soldier overseer) by the time he meets Napoleon.  
> Six years later (1958) Napoleon gets caught and works for the CIA (hint to their second meeting in the sequel) , before seeing Illya again in 1963 in which the movie takes place.


End file.
